


Primavera

by northern_wolf6



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Artist!Reader, F/M, Galeria degli Uffizi, Italy, M/M, Poetic nonsense, Santino is a piece of art, a bit of google translate italian, art babble, bear with me, beginning to the poetic italian summer romance, but tbh it can be m!reader as well, ch1 is a big-ass hannibal reference, i couldn't help it bc i love food, i wrote it thinking of f!reader, italian food appreciation, italian summer rambling, or gender neutral reader, primavera, then in ch2 we get a lovely dinner date, whatever suits you pumpkin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:08:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29823339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northern_wolf6/pseuds/northern_wolf6
Summary: By the end of summer, Florence tended to be truly, beautiful.
Relationships: Santino D'Antonio/Reader, Santino D'Antonio/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. Uffizi

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!  
> I rewatched John Wick recently and couldn't help, but dwell on this beautiful, beautiful Italian mafioso. I mean, have you seen his eyes?  
> Therefor, this begged for an innocent, golden Italian summer romance. I mean, not really, no romance is described here - just the mere beginning of it, but ya know what I mean. Lots of poetic babble about sun, lots of art, lots of Santino being Santino, a sensual handshake is there too. It's also a bit of a reference to my beloved scene from Hannibal, the TV show, when Will and Hannibal admire Primavera together.  
> I think it can be read as female, male, or gender neutral reader, BUT, I did write it with f!reader in mind - it is mentioned once, in Italian word "signora", indicating female character, but if you squint, you won't even notice.  
> So far I post it as a one shot, although I admit, I have a few ideas of how this story can go; nothing sure for now, but I'd love to hear your opinion, and if you'd want to see some sort of follow-up.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> PS.: You can have a lil online tour around the Botticelli room here: https://www.virtualuffizi.com/botticelli-room.html  
> How cool is that!

By the end of summer, Florence tended to be warm and crowded. Variety of tourists preferred visiting on late August, rather than choosing the overrated and way-too-hot July; days were only slightly shorter, nights a tad chilled, slight breeze by the river even more pleasurable than merely three weeks prior. The city was continuously glowing under deep golden beams — the silent reminder of upcoming September — never stopping the choir of excited chatters heard on each and every corner, cafeterias and restaurants almost exploding with tanned guests, as well as relaxed locals. One would think the streets never slept; and they wouldn’t be quite wrong, as while the daytime have been successfully filling cathedrals, museums and galleries, with curious, smiling heads, the night brought music, sounds of loud laughter and the faint smell of wine and sweat. The most peaceful, throughout the otherwise vivid twenty-four hours though, were breaking points, the transition: either just at the dawn, or during the sunset, when everything and everyone prepared for a new phase in the never-ending summer circle of life, similar to a tiger, laying low and ready to jump.

These small, silent moments of transition you enjoyed the most, when the buzz on busy streets calmed ever so lightly, when the crowd thinned out seemingly; when the sun either turned to sleep in fiery flames or woke up slowly, in a chilly, white mist. The calm of them was reassuring, the pause, the intake of breath before everything fell back into the whirl of constant movement.

You sighed deeply, lips curling delicately upwards, adjusting a few gentle strokes of pencil, only to then smooth them out with a single, firm dab of eraser. You took a quick look up at the magnificent model of your today's adoration, taking notice in soft, feminine blush on one of three Grace’s cheeks; you switched the pencil and shaded the paper with subtlety, in slow, loving motions. You tilted your head; that'll do.

 _Galleria degli Uffizi_ should be opened for another hour — an hour of absolute blessing, when most tourists visiting would be returning to their hotels, getting ready for dinnertime, followed by a surely livid evening. An hour of serenity and silence, with just you and art, surrounded and enveloped by the mere katharsis only Renaissance faces could bring; walls of _Sala del Botticelli_ bathed in golden, afternoon sunbeams, bringing glimmering dust into view, whirling in the air, only few individuals left to consider paintings in the gallery’s final time.

You straightened up, pencil leaving the paper, opting to take a small break from sketching Graces’ enveloped hands. Palms, fingers, they were always so complicated, anatomy of many joints always doing tricks on your skill; especially with several fingers intertwined with each other, when shadows took a play in the most unexpected places, making them almost unbearable in a humble recreation you were working on, and the more you looked at them, the more the dislike towards them grew. You glimpsed to your right, almost frustrated — not really, but allowing your eyes to admire other sights, taking mind off the _Primavera_ for the sake of clearance. _The Birth of Venus_ occupied you momentarily, the goddess never failing to astonish; bare, pure, though slight smirk giving an impression as if she could wink at you playfully at any second. You returned her soft smile, and for a second you were sure — if not the self-control and slight embarrassment towards remaining guests of the gallery around you, you would let out a deep sigh of adoration.

The bench you were sat on squawked lightly, the black leather near you dipping in, signalling another visitor stopping by to admire _Primavera_. Lost in Venus’ gentle eyes, you didn’t pay attention — it was a usual situation, you were not given the _Sala_ to yourself after all, no matter how much you would wish that. You nevertheless frowned lightly, few muscles tensing, a familiar feeling crawling up your neck; you were being watched, and no matter who the visitor was, their attention never reached Botticelli’s piece, focusing on you instead. Or, what you were about to learn, your hands, and the paper settled on your knees.

“ _Questo è un bellissimo schizzo, signora_ ,” a soft, masculine baritone said admiringly, and you turned your head towards it politely, only to be met by a pair of bright, cold eyes. A middle-aged, elegant gentleman wore them, as well as mildly tamed locks, falling on his forehead, and a well-fit, three-piece suit. His expression was unreadable — he was smiling politely, although it didn’t quite reach the rest of his features; nor did he seem especially interested in neither you, your sketch, or the surroundings. You returned the gentle, cautious expression and nodded lightly, accepting the comment: your Italian wasn’t too good, merely on a communicative level of a frequent tourist of the Mediterranean country, yet good enough to understand the compliment he meant. 

“ _Grazie mille_ ,” you offered sheepishly, and considered it the end of a short interaction; returning your gaze to the painting before you, only to notice a soft fold of white material you somewhat missed in your sketch. You quirked an eyebrow and got to work with renewed vigour, ever so lightly adjusting shade after shade, delicate smudges of pencil and dabbing of eraser occupying your mind to the fullest.

That is, until the man spoke again, this time speaking Italian you couldn’t quite grasp your head around. Mildly irritated at the sudden interruption, you glanced his way, catching the cold gaze follow each and every small flick of your wrist towards the paper. Tentatively, you closed the sketchbook and turned to dedicate your attention entirely to the stranger; unsure of what to expect.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” you said cautiously, searching for a glimpse of understanding in his eyes. They were captivating, you noticed, green globes under heavy, lazy almost lids, surrounded by a fan of thick lashes. “But I don’t speak Italian that well. Do you perhaps speak English?”

“Why, of course,” he replied almost immediately, his accent not as heavy as you could’ve suspected, giving just a touch of hint to his mother language. “Excuse the terrible assumption, please. I meant to ask if you often recreate such pieces?”

“Whenever I have a chance to face them in the flesh, yes,” your gaze drifted behind him, to the small frame of Botticelli’s self-portrait, considering the red cap the artist wore with a slight amusement. “It’s a great exercise, and a very soothing way of spending time.”

The Italian nodded lightly, seemingly loosing his focus, eyes washing over _Primavera_. Daring a glance, you discovered he obviously held no admiration towards the piece; he watched it with that eerie, cool calculation, something rarely saw in galleries, especially such as _Uffizi_. Golden sunbeams played on the dark, checkered blue of his suit — _it’s way too warm for such outfit_ , you thought — and exposed pieces of his skin made a glowing impression, capturing your attention completely. The man seemed as one with the place; a monument on its own, as lost in thought as Venus, as sparkling as the impersonation of Spring herself, as rich as each Medici family member who managed to be reborn under Botticelli’s brush. He held antique beauty and renaissance mysteriousness; the firm, Roman profile as sharp as a blade, holding power and stern tranquility — but at the same time as round and soft as Mercury’s curious expression on the painting he studied so coldly. You felt captivated, much to your embarrassment, admitting to yourself he would be an excellent model; trying to memorise his most significant features for later sketches…

“I was never too fond of any of these pieces,” he spoke again, verbalising what you already suspected. “They don’t… speak to me, to be honest.” You nod, not quite sure if you should respond; he was eccentric, that for sure, perhaps not too normal either. Maybe you should stand up, leave before he starts talking, demanding more of your attention? Excuse yourself politely, wishing him a nice evening?

Curiosity killed the cat, therefor you sat unmoving, eyes travelling from the captivating man back at _Primavera_ ; admiring it in an odd kind of peace, with the mysterious small talk partner not-admiring it whatsoever.

“I do appreciate the craftsmanship, though,” he explained, lost in thought. “Yes, that is something truly worth complimenting. To be so committed, skilled and determined to create sucha piece, and not just one, but hundreds of them, each brought to life with equal amount of care, it is… commendable.”

“If it is only a craftsmanship you compliment, sir,” you stated, deep in thought. The embodiment of Spring gazed at you from the wall, flower crown heavy on her locks, eyes mischievous, smile unreadable; her belly swollen with child, a symbol of the whole world rebirthing each year, in an unstoppable circle of life — much like Florence, with each day of the late, August summer, every twelve hours dying gently only to rise from its ashes with renewed vigour, tourists pumping the vein-like streets. “Then what is the art itself?”

“Oil on canvas, pencil on paper,” he didn’t hesitate for even a second. “Pointless imagery of things either non-existent or long lost. Each piece is nothing but an item, holding no real value — other than the one we determine it to have.”

“That is a terribly morbid opinion to have.”

You risked a glance his way and noticed the soft smirk grazing mysterious man’s features; and couldn’t help the soft upward of the corners of the lips on your own. _What a character_.

The moment passed in oddly comfortable silence, and you became aware that none of the previous guests remained in the _Sala_. Sun was setting lower and lower with each minute, and through a few narrow windows on the side of the room only a fiery sky was visible now — like silence before the storm, painted clouds a poetic symbol of the inevitably coming reborn; the time of the pale moon and the warm, yellow lantern light, time of dance, laughter and celebration, filled with the intoxicating smell of people’s beloved grape nectar. You rarely took a part, and if you did, then only for a short time, merely a duration of drinking one glass of the said liquor. You preferred observing from afar, from the strategically placed balcony of your hotel room: overviewing _Piazza della Signoria_ , sketching, considering.

“What is art to you then?” The Italian asked, deep in thought, and you jerked up lightly, almost forgetting his presence. You then hummed in acknowledgement of his question, and for a mere second looked Venus straight in the eye; the central character of _Primavera_ , as mysterious and unreadable as the man sitting next to you.

“An expression,” you said, frowning, pausing tentatively before speaking up again. “An expression of what we are, in that very moment, and what we were throughout the entirety of civilisation. A reminder, but a marker as well. It’s more than an item - it’s ungraspable.”

The man gave you a slow nod, and in his lack of answer you took an opportunity of stealing a glance at your wrist, the watch painfully reminding of the time wasted.

Or was it not? Primavera _will still be here tomorrow, and for the following years, every day, at any time_ , you had to remind yourself. The captivating figure with a Roman profile and three-piece suit might not.

You moved unhurriedly, as you hid sketchbook between the leather folds of your bag, pencils and eraser following; you then began to stand up, eyes flowing over the _Sala_ , to then land on the still seated Italian.

“ _Galeria_ closes in a few minutes, sir,” you reminded him politely, ready to say your goodbyes; selfishly using that last moment to memorise his features.

“I’ll make sure for the guards to not cause any issues, if we decide to stray for a bit longer,” he responded carelessly, but moved up as well — revealing he towered above you no more than a few centimetres; the new perspective bringing to light a few earlier unnoticed details of his character: a small scar gracing the corner of his bright eye, an expensive pin keeping his tie in place.

You frowned at the admission, not quite sure what it was supposed to mean. Convince guards to not cause issues? Stray for a bit longer? _We?_

When no words came from you, the man seemed to notice the confusion he caused, although never cared to explain — smirking mischievously instead; it was a playful, charming little expression, soft and round, painfully resembling the one of embodiment of Spring behind his back. You should have known better and ran away from such innocent grin, ran far and fast, before the devilish intention could swallow you…

Curiosity killed the cat, therefor embracing your unlucky feline role, you were ready to open your mouth with a question lingering on the mere tip of your tongue. You didn’t yet know _which_ question would come out eventually, because there was too many of them — but, but that didn’t matter, because the man was faster, the bright, cold green of his wonderful eyes glinting in the most sinful manner you have ever seen.

“Would you care to perhaps join me for a dinner, _artista_?” He asked, appearing almost amused, dangerous tone gracing the nickname he used.

“I don’t have the habit of dining with strangers,” you answered without skipping a beat, tad surprised with your own straightforwardness. It seemed to only bring the said stranger to the wider grin; lazy and delighted one, reminding you of old illustrations of Cheshire Cat.

“Santino,” he offered, extending his hand, which you took — _but perhaps shouldn’t_ — with not much hesitation, your delicate fingers being slowly embraced by larger and warmer digits. “Now, not much of a stranger anymore, am I?”

You nodded, your own smile growing inevitably, hand lingering in his own. You offered your name and never skipped the way his whole demeanour seemed to sink the simple word in, dwelling on it, tasting it on his lips in a quiet murmur; shiver ran down your spine, awfully similar to the one of dread, yet much more electrifying.

“Very well, then,” Santino said and almost reluctantly backed away from the handshake, his focus drifting to straightening invisible creases on his jacket. “I know a fine place by the Arno shore. Excellent view, great variety of wines. What say you, _artista_?”

You allowed your gaze to shift over _Primavera_ one last time, only to meet with Spring’s wise, bright eyes again; and you weren’t sure if the succulent lady in flowers wasn’t mocking you at the moment.

“Lead the way, Santino.”

After all, by the end of summer, Florence tended to be truly, beautiful.


	2. Alla Torre de Rossi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help myself with a small follow-up to the previous chapter, so I shyly offer you, a dinner date with Santino.  
> This time no gender indication, can be read as female/male/gender neutral - the Italian word, a nickname Santino uses towards the reader, "artista", can be used in all three cases.  
> Once again, lots of poetic babble, because I love this goof. Also, LOTS of food, you'll probably get hungry. Not sorry, I would kill for Italian kitchen. And fun fact! As the virgoest virgo on the planet, I looked up a real restaurant in Florence and its menu, and if you google it, you'll get the pictures of the wonderful terrace view they offer. Alla Torre de Rossi, sponsor me.  
> Enjoy!

Italian kitchen stole hearts of the many, likewise in Europe, both Americas, and far beyond. It grew legendary, the simplicity of Mediterranean genius culinary thought; gaining more by less, marvelling various palates with textures and flavours. According to Roman descendants’ ideals,being a surprisingly pleasant aftermath of the times of poorness, anyone could cook, from anything — olive oil, garlic, basil, some tomatoes and pasta well mixed with around twenty minutes by the kitchen table, _ed ecco qua_ , a healthy dinner for four hungry family members.

The term itself though, “Italian kitchen” would be an enormous, if not even offending, understatement. Each region had and still has its own perks, upper hands and downfalls, its quirks and oddities; Northern Italy proud of the variety of cow cheeses and risotto, while Southernpeople claiming their faith in goat cheeses and thousands recipes for pasta. The country itself, split into nearly twenty culinary regions, the must-eat list differing with each visited city. One surely has to give a try to chicken specialties while in Turin, and to a famous _bolognese_ meat sauce in Bologna. Naples never fails to lure with the traditional _margherita_ , Sicily and Siena eagerly feed their guests with various wonderful deserts, and Florence… Oh, in Florence, the tourist ought to let themselves be pleased with _Bistecca alla Fiorentina_ , Florentine Steak, the top notch delicacy of Tuscan kitchen.

 _Alla Torre de Rossi_ , an elegant, strategically placed restaurant with a view to kill for, didn’t serve steaks though. They did dwell on their Tuscan heritage, that for sure — with selection of regional cheeses, hams, sausages and vegetables, traditional Florentine soup, typical stew brew, and variety of Italian dishes, cooked and served with a touch of local style — but _Bistecca_ name did not grace their menu, and neither did the white _Vermentino_ wine you sipped on, savouring the way its delicate bouquet went along with _porcini_ mushroom sauce that graced your plate on top of thin, homemade tagliatelle.

You asked about the steak, of course you did; and Santino briefly hinted that he knew the owner, all while cutting into the piece of meat with a small, devilish smirk.

The sun came to set over an hour ago, leaving behind a velvety rich, dark blue sky, stars gracing its surface in a form of tiny, golden jewels. Fiery glow hovered above Florence, indication of the never-ending rhythm of the city, air heavy and warm, rarely moved by soft blows of the river breeze. The globe of Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore stood tall and clear, never failing to overlook the panorama with a motherly care; the tower of _Galleria degli Uffizi_ not far from it, both points you grew fond of over the last years. The perspective showed them in a new, eerie light, though: from the wonderful terrace of the restaurant, they looked unreachable, as did the whole city — merely shapes, in shades of gold and violet, all glimmering in the reflection of ever steady surface of Arno, a lonesome boat occasionally cutting through. And people? People, both tourists and locals, busy celebrating life, got lost in the shadows of narrows streets, only indication of their presence being echoes of laughter and singing, faint, as if coming from another world.

Curious, you asked if he lives in Florence, but quickly learned that the green-eyed Italian was one of the most, if not the most, secretive and enigmatic man you’ve ever had a pleasure to meet.

“Sometimes I do, yes,” sounded his response, and you couldn’t help but stop the glass of wine halfway up your mouth, brow cocking expectantly. Yet Santino said no more, catching your expression, but deciding to remain unbothered; either for the sake of keeping his mysterious facade or simply being the matter of his character, you didn’t know. “You?”

For a moment you wished to give him a taste of his own medicine, play the odd game he offered. Hovering your nose over the crystal glass, deep in thought, you let your gaze wander off over the panorama, the palette of warm, golden colours not too different from the ones gracing streets during the day; this time though standing in such contrast to the cold, dark sky. You breathe in the soft smell of wine, in all its tickling goodness, before taking a slow, tentative sip. Dry, acidic, with citrus and earthy tones, Tuscan _Vermentino_ grew on you rather quickly.

“Sometimes I do, yes,” you answered, from the corner of your vision noticing a small grin that found its way into Italian’s face, all teeth and cheekiness, delicate wrinkles becoming more apparent around his eyes. “For vacation, that is. Once a year, to relax by my lonesome.”

Santino didn’t respond, only nodded lightly in acknowledgement while swirling his own wine in a glass. He locked his gaze behind your shoulder. A soft smile, aftermath of the previous expression, still lingered on his features — and all of the sudden, you realised you didn’t mind the half-conversation and those agonisingly long moments of silence. Back at home, you probably would; feeling awkward and in a desperate need of maintaining the most awful type of small-talk, not knowing entirely how to act in such alien situation. But here in Florence, you couldn’t care less. Not with _Vermentino_ , not with _porcini_ mushrooms. Not with Santa Maria del Fiore watching over the golden panorama, not with sky being a velvet carpet of glimmering stars; not with a faint smell of warm summer, the river breeze, distant laughters and _Cento giorni_ playing softly from the restaurant speakers. Not with the mysterious, elegant man on the other side of the table, one you absolutely couldn’t read; he was all transparent at the first glance, but in truth, not giving out a one hint about his real demeanour.

You dared asking subtly again, after a few moments of silent dining, if he comes from around, and this time he revealed a tad more — he’s a Southerner, he implied, with a wink commenting on the infamous southern temperament.

“Born and raised in Naples,” he added and you hummed, placing cutlery across the plate, Santino doing the same only a small while later. “Ever been?”

“Once, long ago,” you offered truthfully and smiled to yourself; the memories of trip came back in a pleasant wave, youthful years of carelessness, smells and sounds, views and people of the past. “On the second year of university, if I remember well.”

Another question formed in the back of your throat, one that lingered since almost the beginning of the evening; but the waitress approached, a young girl — her thick, long hair tied in a tight ponytail, eyes big and bright, skin golden, glimmering under the soft light of terrace lanterns. She offered a kind smile, both towards you and your companion, and for a moment you allowed yourself to get lost in it, in the simplicity of the warm gesture, lips turning upwards on your own. The waitress offered a question about the dessert in smooth, melodic Italian, and you wanted to refuse, already forming a sentence in the back of your head; but Santino was quicker, already ordering two portions of pineapple carpaccio with vanilla ice-cream. He then spoke further, this time too fast for you to catch up with the language, only allowing you to pick out the word _Champagne_. You thanked the girl politely when she gathered the plates and watched her leave, glaring Italian’s way the moment she disappeared behind the corner, earning an unexpected chuckle in return.

“That was unnecessary,” you commented, shaking your head disapprovingly. “I get headaches after champagne."

“They marinate the pineapple in white wine, can you imagine?” Santino wondered, unbothered, eyes playful, and you opted to drop the subject.

Bottle of fizzy, dry alcohol arrived in a silver ice bucket, being quickly and skilfully opened by the pleasant waitress. The first appreciative sip gave away its rich bouquet, stinging the tongue ever so lightly — bold, yet soft, with hints of pear and green apple, citrus and lime, and the subtlest oaky undertones; of yeast, vanilla and honey. It was definitely worth the headache, you decided to claim, as the palate got quietly commented on during the first glass, the Italian seemingly pleased with the choice. Slight breeze hit his forehead, blowed at a few stray locks, the warm evening air giving away to the chill of awaking night with each passing minute. Eyes following lazily the dark strands — tamed with gel, yet so wild — you dared to ask a lingering question, forming it in as shy and careless way as you possibly could. A chuckle, almost mocking one, was the first answer.

“Let’s say I’m a businessman,” he said with finality, and you couldn’t help yourself with a likewise amused tone.

“A mysterious Southern businessman who cannot appreciate the beauty of art and orders delicacies outside the menu? Santino, are you perhaps some sort of mafioso, Vito Corleone’s descendant?”

It would be hilarious, truly, if you haven’t looked up from above the rim of an elegant, flat, champagne glass — that was the moment for you to regret the innocent joke, as your gaze met with Italian’s; his bright green globes turning dark, piercing, as an odd, unsettling smirk grew on his features. The shiver ran up your spine at his arrogant, quirked brow, utterly unsure of what to make of it. Santino noticed, of course he did, and for a moment you felt so trapped under his stare, and the breath caught deep in your lungs, and…

Oh, what a silly goose you were.

You let out a loud, hearty laugh, because if those shady mobsters really existed, they surely weren’t spending their free time dining in Florence, having funny little chats with lonesome artists at the gallery. But if they truly, for some unknown reason, did — you, honestly, after a second of consideration, couldn’t care less.

Not with the valley of stars the sky offered today, not with golden Florence around. Not with the taste champagne, fizzy yet so gentle, and with the pineapple carpaccio on a way. They marinate the pineapple in white wine!

Not with Santino on the other side of the table, who now raised his thick brows curiously, lids heavy, his previous mischievous smirk turning into one of those wide, charming grins.

“And you, _artista_?” He dared to return your previous question. Over the pace of conversation, you decided to not hate the cheesy nickname he gave you; you couldn’t, not with the way his soft voice reverb with something near fondness when he spoke it. “Do you live off your pieces, or is it just a hobby?”

“A bit of both,” you shared, after a moment of consideration. “It’s a hobby, but I do manage to sell some of the sketches as an additional income.”

“How about the main income, if I may ask?”

“University. Mostly research, but I teach as well.”

“In what field, I wonder?”

“That would be quite a lot of knowledge for someone who only revealed he’s a _businessman_.”

It was his turn to laugh, and you couldn’t help but dwell on the melodic sound of it — it was as if he was barking, in that mellow baritone of his, but in an oddly graceful and charming manner, not like anything you’ve ever heard. More wrinkles appeared around his eyes, that were shining bright with amusement, mouth stretching in an all-teeth smile; he looked so much younger, eyebrow line gentle and lightly curved, that arrogant expression he wore most of the time disappearing.

The dessert arrived, and passed by exchanging small, yet significant sentences. Pineapple — marinated in white wine! — turned out to be top notch, sweet and delicate pulp soft enough to be melting pleasantly while meeting with tongue, yet still hard enough to remain slightly crunchy. The marinate gave away notes of acidity, only there to break through the sweetness; kept in a masterful balance, and along with vanilla ice-cream on the side, making a heavenly combination, one that you couldn’t help but keet humming in appreciation at, making Santino chuckle every time. You noticed his eyes never strayed too far from you — whereas your gaze kept wandering, florentine panorama behind Italian's head working like a magnet to your mind, always there, calling and moaning similarly to a lonesome siren, begging to be paid attention to. While he revealed having a very strict father (a ruler of his “businesses”), the cathedral globe winked suspiciously; when he mentioned his beautiful sister (“what a wise woman she is, _artista_!”), Arno seemed as if throwing small, excited waves; and the moment you learned he's nowadays spending most of his time in New York (he tilted his head, asking if you’ve ever seen such place), Peppino Gagliardi’s calming voice on the speakers howled with satisfaction.

Santino was, much like back in the _Galleria_ , one with the place, you realised. No matter where he occasionally lived or visited, no matter where his businesses brought him and how eccentric and eerie he might have seemed — he belonged to Florence, making the picture of the city complete. Belonged to the monuments, to the hum of the streets, _Primavera_ ’s curious gaze, to the golden aura and the kind waitress; the smell of wine and late summer was his cologne, while he wore a suit of elegance and power of Medici. He might have been from the South, but his soul was florentine, and for a moment you weren’t sure if you could ever think of this placeagain, without recalling those bright, green globes of his and the shine of his cufflinks — as if he picked two particularly beautiful stars from the sky above, just to put them on his wrists.

As both your plates and the bottle of champagne grew empty, you politely proposed to split the check-out, already reaching for the wallet in a suggestive manner — but Santino only chuckled and shook his head, getting to stand up, and nodded with gratitude towards the waitress, who smiled your way from afar. He offered you his arm as you left _Alla Torre de Rossi_ without paying, and you understood it wasn’t him who belonged to Florence: it was Florence that belonged to him.

Upon reaching the front door of the hotel you were staying at, you dared one last time, and asked for his number, and you’re absolutely sure you should’ve felt frightened when he answered.

“No need to, _artista_ ,” he said. “I’ll find you when you wish to see me again.”

But you couldn’t care less. Not after _Vermentino_ and top shelf champagne, not when looking around _Piazza della Signoria_ , not when feeling as golden as the whole city was.

Not when the man who owned Florence, whatever that meant, squeezed your arm affectionately — his touch burned, carved into your skin — only to turn and disappear in velvety shadows, leaving the smell of Dior and summer behind him.


End file.
